


slow company

by janteu



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Fanart Included, Illustrated, lesbians 00Q, no plot just pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26107564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janteu/pseuds/janteu
Summary: Q follows Bond around Europe, drinks too much tea, and leans a little into domesticity.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	slow company

**Author's Note:**

> i've included some of my own illustrations of bond & Q here, that's what the explicit rating is for :) use reader view on mobile for the best rendering of the images!
> 
> (also, i'd do a fancast with parminder nagra as Q and cate blanchett as bond)

[](https://imgur.com/2EjvlS1)

By the time Q’s third kettle of the night has whistled its way through the flat it’s nearly half past six, and the sun is creeping through the windows over a golden cityscape. Bond must have opened the curtains. Q’s sleep schedule is by nature horrendous, but she can’t say there are often people around to remind her. It’s not as if Bond wasn’t out until three in the morning anyway, so obviously she shouldn’t have anything to say about it. A couple of hours is certainly more than the intermittent naps Q has taken on the sofa in the living room, though, so if Bond managed that much, Q will have to commend her.

Q likes the dreamy, quiet hour between night and morning best, even (perhaps especially) when she hasn’t slept properly. On her days off she likes to sleep when the rest of the world wakes, keeping the time in between for herself. Watching the sleeping world in one’s pajamas is a unique brand of serenity, a luxury she can’t help but indulge in. And perhaps she’s a little more brave with a steaming cup of Earl Grey in hand and clad in a worn sleep shirt. She’ll take courage wherever she can get it.

The door to Bond’s room is ajar, leaving the kitchen privy to a sliver of her morning routine. Bond’s got the sunrise-facing balcony—the perks of arriving first, Q supposes—and Q has to squint slightly to make out the curve of Bond’s back against the golden blur. Q is certain that Bond knows she’s watching, but she doesn’t put on a show, just covers her scars up one by one, the stretch and pull of the muscles in her back on display as she dresses. Between glances up from her laptop Q catches quick, graceful motions back and forth, more fluid each time. Q knows the feeling, knows what it’s like to shrug out of one’s tired skin and into the smooth-jointed body of someone who knows how to keep secrets. 

Bond turns, smiling very slightly through the crack in the door, shirt half buttoned, before leaning over to push the door open. Rumpled as she seems, Bond is a picture of ease and confidence, perfectly composed with a hairpin between her teeth and a pack of cigarettes in one hand. Q aches, just a bit, and wonders how long M will let them play house. 

Q raises her near-empty cup of tea in greeting, then turns away, rinsing her hands of peach juice. She’s been in for a couple of days now and is in dire need of fresh fruit and bread, and Bond hardly has time to go grocery shopping. Q knows she could persuade the couple of agents sent to babysit (unnecessary, but she doesn’t care enough to interfere) to pick up lunch at the corner store, but if she gets out early enough she won’t melt in Paris’ midday summer heat, and make it back in time to run the few items Bond picked up for her last night and pack up for a late-night train back to London. Perhaps she’ll stop by a museum, if she has the time. She hasn’t been to the d’Orsay in a while, and she knows Bond favors it over the Louvre. 

Bond’s habit of showing up wherever Q stays long enough to brew a cup of tea seems to extend to whatever accommodations she’s got abroad. These days, Bond drops in when she likes, where she likes, and Q makes it easy for her. It’s best that MI6 doesn’t forget how easily Q can disappear; a little traipsing around Europe is a reasonable and legal way to remind them who they’re working with. Q likes to keep them on their toes. Perhaps she and Bond aren’t so different after all. After a while no one asks—the most Q has gotten in the past month is a raised eyebrow from M—so Q basks in the routine and the occasional change of scenery. When her aunt calls she tells her that she’s been telecommuting. 

Q picks up her laptop and a couple of files from the coffee table. She glances once at the third iteration of the vintage lipstick laser before stashing that in her pocket, too, and makes for Bond’s room. 

They brief on the balcony, much more slowly than either of them can really afford to, but Q props herself up on the balustrade and lets herself enjoy the morning. Bond pulls out a cigarette, offers one to Q—who declines, as she most often does, unless she’s had a spectacularly difficult morning—and puffs smoke into the pink sky. Cigarettes and coffee with Bond, Q figures, is the closest they’ll get to domestic. 

Bond is a very particular brand of trying in the mornings, shirt unbuttoned and lips curled into a dry smirk, leaning into Q’s space every time she mentions something more ridiculous than usual in the report from headquarters. Q isn’t terribly fond of conversation, as a general rule, but she hides very poorly her penchant for a little bit of banter here and there. She can’t decide if she should be distressed by the amount of goading she and Bond engage in. It’s woefully unbecoming. 

“Do try not to forget which piece of the device you’re looking for,” says Q when Bond’s coffee has dwindled to a stain at the bottom of the cup. 

“You do know that I can read, Q,” says Bond, leaning back to let smoke trail from her lips. “It is part of my job to look over all that myself.” Q lifts an eyebrow in mock disbelief. 

“It’s also part of your job to avoid destroying my hardware,” she returns, sharp. She’s never had much luck reprimanding Bond; she aims for stern and aloof and always seems to end up somewhere more like playful. It thrills Bond to no end. “I’ve learnt it’s better not to assume, when the agent seems to have little competency in anything but being an arse.”

“All teeth, this morning,” Bond grins against the end of her cigarette before putting it out. She rolls her shoulders back and makes for the kitchen with her empty cup. She’s only got socks on, and they thump against the floor so quietly that Q barely registers when she’s made it to the kitchen.

Q sighs, fingering the lipstick in her pocket. If she could get away with only half the things Bond does, she’d be close to world domination. Everyone’s lucky to have Q-branch bureaucracy to keep her in check. 

“If you make me another cup of tea,” Q calls, leaning against the doorframe, “I might have something for you.” 

“Exploiting my mishaps with equipment for personal gain, Q?” says Bond from the kitchen. 

“Mishaps indeed,” Q mutters indignantly, but she can hear the clank of the kettle on the stove, and looks out over the balcony at the sun with a secret smile. 

She thinks she can hear someone a few floors away playing the piano. Q hasn’t played in years. Perhaps she’ll pick it back up. Life is starting to get comfortable already. 

Bond returns with the tea and Q takes a sip before setting it down on the vanity. She moves slowly, deliberately. Waiting and watching are easy, in her line of work. If she was more sentimental she might want to preserve this moment forever, the calm carelessness of being suspended in time with Bond, at no one’s mercy but their own. It must show on her face, because Bond is watching her, amused, and there’s a softness to her expression that betrays something as tender as it is dangerous. Eye to eye like this they’re almost the same height. Being this close feels like a confession; woman facing woman, no demons to speak of.

Bond’s nose nearly collides with her cheek. Q shifts slightly back, takes a breath, and sets to work on the buttons of Bond’s shirt, just for something to do with her hands. She feels Bond’s surprise in the lightning-fast clench and release of the muscles in her neck, and looks up at her with a smile that she hopes doesn’t betray her pounding heart. The shirt is a bit stiff, one Bond hasn’t worn recently. A perfectly crisp white. It’s rough in comparison to the skin of Bond’s chest, which seems to rush up to meet her fingers with each inhale. Clear, curious eyes look back at her, sparking with mischief in the moments before Q looks away, deftly making her way up and stopping at three buttons, thumb brushing against her collarbone.

“Getting slow, these days,” murmurs Q, delighting in the arch of Bond’s eyebrow as she tucks stray strands of hair behind her ear. She knows Bond dresses slowly partially to drive Q mad, but the stitches on her upper arm can’t help. Gunshot wound. She’s got too many of them.

“Only to frustrate my housewife of a quartermaster, of course,” says Bond, the insufferable slant of her smile seeping into Q’s fingertips, and then, not more than a clever murmur: “you’re rather quick with your fingers, though, aren’t you?”

“A steady hand,” Q says, straightening Bond’s collar and reaching into her pocket for the lipstick, “is always useful.”

“After all that about pulling triggers,” Bond says, met with Q’s best quelling look. It’s not very effective--never has been. Nothing more than a reflex, at this point. Bond eyes the lipstick. “Is this my surprise gift?”

Bond’s makeup is rarely memorable. Practical, simple, unobtrusive. Q doubts she’s even put on mascara this morning, but she can see a powdery film under her eyes. A consequence of late nights and early mornings. Q gave up on her own dark circles long ago. Bond could use a pop of colour--attention on the lips. She knows Bond is partial to crimson. 

“I quite like this colour on you,” says Q, holding Bond’s chin delicately with three fingers. She applies it with ease, and she’s sure her satisfaction is obvious when the colour glides on in smooth layers of satin sheen. “I’ve customised it myself.” Bond has gone still, eyelashes casting parabolic shadows on her cheeks in the morning light. Q can feel the rise and fall of her chest against hers, the phantom thump of a parallel heartbeat. Q wonders just how much Bond likes this, being silent and still under Q’s clever fingers. She breathes in the smell of Bond’s clean shampoo and subtle fragrance, the sweetness underneath, and doesn’t need to remind herself how strong Bond is, taut and tame under her impeccable suits and dresses. Hears herself want that strength in her own quiet, uneven breaths, but wants Bond under her more. She pivots Bond’s face to admire her handiwork, letting out a tiny exhale in relief when the edges are clean. “There we are,” she says, deeply aware of how close her face is to Bond’s and the softness of her neck under her fingers. The world pauses for a moment, Q reveling in the way Bond glances down at her lips and back up again. Q drags her fingers along the line of Bond’s throat before glancing away.

“Rather antique for you, Q,” begins Bond as Q twists the lipstick back down. “It’s quite nice.” Q almost makes a face, but knows it’s the closest Bond will come to a compliment. “Does it do anything else?” 

“007,” says Q, very seriously, “If you think me the kind of woman who would give you anything so bland as a tube of lipstick, you don’t know me at all.” Bond’s smile cracks wrinkles over her face, almost as wide as Q has ever seen it. Q puts on the cap and twists it clockwise.

“Ninety degrees. It should click--a feel thing, you won’t hear it. Pull this bit at the end out, twist again--carefully, please, I’d rather you didn’t slice your finger off--and press here to activate the laser. It’s our sharpest and thinnest yet, state-of-the-art.” She points the back end of the tube at the empty glass on the vanity and slices it clean through, as if it had broken into two pieces on the floor. Bond’s eyebrows raise another millimetre. “Adjust the size like so.” She twists a pull-out notch. “Obviously, it also contains a tracking device, and every time you activate the laser it will notify me immediately.” 

“How sweet,” begins Bond dryly, “lipstick that doubles as both a laser and a chaperon.” Bond’s smile has relaxed into something warm, something fond and gentle and easy that makes Q’s stomach turn. 

Q hands her the tube. “I’d really rather you not break this one. The shade is really very lovely.”

“I’ll do my best,” says Bond, jacket on and out the door before Q can finish her rapidly cooling tea.

—

Later, on the train, Q pulls out her paper ticket to stash in her bag—unused; she only really bothers with e-tickets these days; she wouldn’t wish a paper trail on any foe—and finds, much to her dismay, a lasered message cut into the thick paper. It’s choppy, but nonetheless thin and rather skillfully done. _Don’t wait up for me._ Q laughs softly. Neither of them have ever been very good at following instructions. 

[](https://imgur.com/gf79C8D)

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoyed the artwork consider following me on instagram/tumblr at @teatimebanter


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